


When I Wake

by infinitely1895



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post S3, Seriously just a lot of comfort, sorry for all the fluff, the baby didn't exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 11:06:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13293516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinitely1895/pseuds/infinitely1895
Summary: It has been three years since Sherlock's return from the dead. Despite his best efforts, John Watson is still fighting nightmares that force him to relive the worst moments of his life.





	When I Wake

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into writing Johnlock, so I decided to start out with something small and mostly just fluff. No real plot, just Sherlock encountering John after he relives Sherlock's fall in a nightmare.  
> Any feedback is welcome!

John is watching in horror as his best friend, the bravest and wisest man he has ever had the pleasure of knowing, stands on the edge of a rooftop several stories up. He is too far out of John’s reach to protect, too decided in his path to sway back into the realms of safety. 

“It’s what people do, don’t they?” Sherlock’s voice drops an octave, and John can hear the slight tremor of emotion in it now. “Leave a note.”

John wants to rush at him, wants to beg him to shut up, to put a stop to all of this. But Sherlock has told him to stay put, and he doesn’t think his body could propel him forwards even if he wanted it to. He is frozen to the spot, knuckles white from the death grip he has around his mobile- the last connection he has to Sherlock, the last hope he has of stopping what he knows is about to happen right before his very eyes. 

“Leave a note when?” he asks, desperate. 

But John already knows. He knows because Sherlock has never allowed himself to sound this emotional before, not even at Baskerville. He knows because Sherlock is standing just a little too close to the edge of the rooftop for comfort, closer than even Sherlock’s admittedly dangerous judgement would normally allow. 

And he knows because he has watched this scene unfold hundreds of times now, each time identical, each rendition just as nausea-inducing, horrifying and heartbreaking as the last. This scene has played itself out in John’s nightmares more times than he can count, and he knows he can do nothing but stand rooted in place and watch it all unfold. He knows that Sherlock will bid him goodbye, that he himself will utter one last plea for Sherlock to reconsider, that Sherlock will jump anyway. He knows that, even if he is dreaming, he will still feel the physical sensation of shock and horror, will still feel like all of the air has been punched from his lungs in one fell swoop as he watches his entire world shatter into pieces when Sherlock’s body connects with the pavement below (or, so he had thought, anyway). 

No matter how many times his mind replays this scene, he will never be prepared for it. It will never get any easier to watch someone you love murmur what was meant to be a final goodbye, before plummeting off a rooftop towards the cruel, unforgiving concrete below. 

“Goodbye John.”

The words hit John like a punch to the gut. And then, as always, Sherlock tips forward and is falling, falling, and John can hear the sound of his best friend’s name tearing from his own throat, can feel his entire world tilting sideways as he thinks to himself: _please no, not again, I can’t go through this again._

“ _John._ ” 

John jolts back into consciousness with a start, vaguely aware that there are fingers urgently gripping at his wrist and at his shoulder. It must still be the middle of the night, but someone has turned the bedside lamp on, filling the room with an dim yellow glow. John slowly comes back to awareness, trying to take in his surroundings and regulate his panicked breathing all at once. He is damp with sweat- his hair is sticking to his forehead and he can feel his white t-shirt sticking to the small of his back. He resists the urge to peel the shirt off over his head as he glances down at the long, slender fingers that are gripping urgently at his wrist. This is the grip that had pulled him from his wretched sleep, that had saved him from living the nightmare out to it’s inevitable bitter end- wherein John is left standing alone on the blood-soaked pavement, watching as the body of his best friend is wheeled away on a gurney. God, is he glad he was spared those last few moments of desperate panic.

He angles his body towards Sherlock, who looks as ruffled as John has ever seen him. He is kneeling on the bed beside John, and has obviously just woken from sleep himself. His hair is a mess of bed-headed curls, his bleary eyes sleepy but filled with panic and concern. The hand that is not clutching at John’s wrist is on John’s opposite shoulder, fingers digging painfully just above John’s bicep. If he didn't look so panicked, he would be bloody adorable right now, so rumpled and sleepy. 

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, cringing as he rubs at his own sleep-weary eyes with his free hand, struggling to sound composed. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“What was that?” Sherlock presses, ignoring John’s apology. “You wouldn’t wake, John. It took me seventy-nine seconds to get you awake. That’s a full forty-two seconds more than usual.”

John stares back up at Sherlock, wants to tell him that it is all okay, that it was nothing. But the moment his gaze connects with Sherlock’s, it all becomes too much for him, and he can feel the facade of nonchalance fade away before he has even begun to employ it. Seeing Sherlock kneeling beside him- alive, with those brilliant gears turning in his mind- when the image of Sherlock’s body rushing towards the concrete is still imprinted on the backs of his eyelids… no. It is simply too much, too soon, and he cannot pretend to be unaffected by the relief that has washed over him at the realization that it was just a nightmare, that it is all truly in the past. 

He exhales heavily, running a weary hand through his damp, messy hair. “I just need… I need…” But words are failing him right now, and he can’t seem to verbalize what exactly it is that he needs from Sherlock, and so he settles for burying his face into Sherlock’s shoulder. He sighs with relief as his hands clench tightly around fistfuls Sherlock’s t-shirt and just _hold on._

Sherlock hesitates before releasing his grip on John’s wrist and shoulder, his arms weaving carefully around John as he holds the smaller man against him and just breathes. He can deduce by John’s silence on the matter and subsequent display of emotionalism what the source of his distress must be, and he knows that, for this situation, words are not needed. Breathing is enough. 

John’s trembling palm skims over Sherlock’s chest, coming to rest exactly over where his heart is ( _yes, thank fucking God_ ) still beating, perhaps a little more erratically than usual due to his concern for John’s current emotional state. John lets his hand rest there for a moment, his eyes falling shut in gratitude that Sherlock is here, Sherlock is alive and real and breathing beside him. 

After taking a moment to compose himself, to reassure himself that his friend’s presence is not a sham, he finally allows himself to lift his head from Sherlock’s shoulder. He slides one hand onto the back of Sherlock’s neck, and uses the other to draw the detective's face down to his own. His lips find Sherlock’s in what begins as a chaste kiss, meant to ground him back in the present, but quickly becomes more urgent. Sherlock moans into the unexpected kiss, immediately giving himself up to John’s will. He allows one hand to press against the small of John’s back, drawing John tight against him, the fingers of his other hand tracing along John’s jawline tenderly. Sherlock doesn’t need to say a word to reassure John of his presence, he knows this by now. He knows that he can pour more feeling into one single kiss than he could ever possibly string coherently into words. Words are not his greatest strength, but he has come to understand that increasing John's happiness is somehow a skill he comes by naturally. 

After several heated moments, John forces himself to break away from the kiss, pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s, allowing himself a moment to collect his thoughts and push the nightmare from the forefront of his mind. How many times had he awoken from that same nightmare to an empty bed and an even emptier flat, to the stark reminder that Sherlock was dead and he was completely alone in the world? He can remember endless nights of lying flat on his back in his bed (alone, always alone), terrified to drift back into sleep and see Sherlock falling, falling… but even more terrified of waking up to the realization that it was all horribly real, that Sherlock really was dead.

Even now- three years after Sherlock’s return and just over a full year of falling asleep with Sherlock at his side- John still dreads the moment the nightmares will return; because they always do make a return. It is much easier now than before- heaven only knows what Sherlock had deduced from the 3AM ‘pocket-dial’ phone calls that John used to make to verify that, yes, Sherlock really had come back from the dead, that he really was alive. This had been before John’s return to Baker Street, before the truth had come out about Mary’s past and the false pregnancy, finally giving him the excuse he needed to escape what had quickly turned into an unhappy marriage. Although, to be fair, the marriage was one that (if John was brutally honest with himself) had been doomed to fail from the moment Sherlock Holmes returned to London, ex-assassin for a wife or not. 

John’s return to Baker Street had made the nightmares slightly easier to recover from- waking up in his old bed in the flat he shared with Sherlock was really proof enough that Sherlock’s return hadn’t been in his imagination. Still, that hadn’t stopped John from creeping downstairs to verify Sherlock’s presence in 221B; the detective would usually still be up working on some experiment or another, and would barely notice John’s relieved sigh or the weight that lifted from his shoulders the moment he laid eyes on his best friend, alive, breathing, and making a bloody mess of their shared flat. He would usually grumble some sort of half-energized response to John’s offer of tea, and continue on with his experiments as though John weren’t there. 

But the real relief had come when the two of them had finally ‘gotten their crap together’ (as Lestrade had so fondly phrased it), and officially gotten together. This had come during a particularly long winter’s storm just before last Christmas, when the two of them had been shut in together for a solid two days with nothing but each other and just the right amount of whisky to keep them company. The combination had proved to be the perfect storm of circumstance needed to push them into each other’s arms, and John had never woken from a nightmare alone since. Usually, it was enough to roll over and determine that- yes, Sherlock’s chest was still rising and falling as he lay sleeping and yes, John could still feel his heart beating as he curled himself into Sherlock and willed himself back to sleep.

This was only the third time that his nightmares had gone too far, that Sherlock had actually been awoken by John’s thrashing and obvious distress. 

“Should I make us some tea?” John asks, hoping to avoid the conversation that he knows Sherlock will want to have.

Sherlock doesn’t relent. “It’s four o’clock in the morning.”

“We’re English,” John reminds him with a poor attempt at a smile. “Tea is always on.” 

Sherlock pulls back to gaze at his partner, his forehead still creased with concern. “John.” 

John sighs heavily at Sherlock’s unwillingness to let the matter drop. Leave it to Sherlock to be annoyingly selective of the topics he refuses to skirt around. It can be painstakingly frustrating trying to get Sherlock to stay on topics that John actually wishes to discuss, but when it comes to subjects John would rather avoid (like the fact that he is obviously still fighting nightmares of Sherlock’s fall), Sherlock is attentive, persistent, and heartbreakingly unwilling to let sleeping dogs lie. 

John drops his hands away from Sherlock’s neck and cheek, his own gaze sweeping sideways to gaze at the opposite wall, embarrassed. 

“It’s fine, Sherlock, it’s all fine,” he dismisses, and even if his boyfriend weren't the world’s most talented detective , he doubts he would’ve sounded convincing. 

Sherlock’s concern has mingled with some other emotion now, something John can’t quite pinpoint. “This is my fault,” Sherlock responds somewhat bitterly. “Every nightmare you have, every time this happens… it is always my fault.” 

This was not what John had been expecting. “Sorry, what?” he asks with a frown. “How is that?” 

“I’ve hurt you,” Sherlock explains. “I made a decision that hurt you, and even now that I’ve returned, that decision keeps hurting you over and over and over again, and that… it’s out of my control, John.” He shakes his head, his mouth tightening bitterly. “There is nothing I can do about it, and it frustrates me to no end.”

John can hear the agonized guilt threaded into Sherlock’s voice, tinged with frustration that John knows stems from the loss of control that Sherlock is experiencing. Sherlock likes being in control- likes knowing all of the facts, analyzing them, and coming to the best possible solution based on the evidence at hand. But- try as he might- Sherlock cannot take control of the nightmares that plague John’s mind when he closes his eyes, and John knows it must kill him to admit this, to admit that he is helpless to change the situation. 

John can see that Sherlock is retreating into his mind- a dangerous place, particularly when coupled with a sense of self-loathing. 

Sensing that this could go downhill rather quickly, he reaches out and runs his fingers through Sherlock’s curls- limp and crushed against his forehead from the way he had fallen asleep. John’s lips curve into an encouraging smile as he pushes the hair back off his partner’s forehead, his thumb tracing lightly above Sherlock’s brow. 

“Come back to me,” he murmured softly. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

Sherlock’s face tightens. “I hurt you,” he repeats, like a mantra, the self-loathing obvious. 

John shakes his head firmly. “No, you saved my life,” he reminds him. “You made the decision that, in the long run, would hurt me the least. Even if I couldn’t see it at the time.” 

Sherlock still looks doubtful, so John presses on, knowing at the very least that he has his full attention. “Look. Did losing you hurt like hell? Christ, Sherlock, of course it did. Every single day that you were gone is a day I don’t wish to remember, and for good reason. That was…. never mind what that was, okay? It was not a good time in my life, let’s just leave it at that.” John swallows hard, tamping down the ugly memories that threaten to rear their ugly heads at the mention of Sherlock’s time away. He has buried those demons deep within the darkest recesses of his mind, but that doesn’t mean they don’t like to come out to play when called upon or looked at too closely. 

“Look, losing you was the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through; I won’t lie to you about that. And of course I’m going to think about it from time to time, and it’s going to hurt like hell. But you did what was necessary to save my life, and you made sure that you came home to me, and that’s... bloody hell, that’s all that matters now. Do you understand that, Sherlock?”

Sherlock still looks doubtful, but it’s a stubborn sort of doubt now, the kind that lingers only because Sherlock is Sherlock, and he has a tendency to fight back against self-forgiveness at every turn. 

“I would never have left you if it weren’t absolutely necessary.” Sherlock’s voice is quiet, apologetic, but yielding. He knows that John is right- he knows that there was no better alternative he could have chosen, and that focusing on the past is futile. He understands all of this, they’ve been through it a thousand times, but it usually takes some prompting from John for him to acknowledge this, to fully understand that he had done the right thing. 

John just nods his head in understanding and leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss over Sherlock’s brow. “I know, love.” He pulls back but stays close this time, his eyes searching Sherlock’s meaningfully. “You can’t stop me from having nightmares, you git. Sometimes I think you’re part bloody superhero, but even that is beyond your control. What you _can_ do is just promise to always be here when I wake up. Just… just stay alive, okay? Think you can manage that for me?”

Sherlock swallows hard, nodding. “Yes,” he agrees, relenting. “Yes, that seems doable.” 

John leans in for what is meant to be a simple kiss, but he finds he is quickly doing nothing more than smiling against Sherlock’s lips as he tangles his fingers through those beautiful curls, drawing his partner closer. He feels the last remnants of panic and dread that the nightmare had induced drift away as the feeling of warmth and safety that comes with kissing Sherlock washes over him once more. 

_Home,_ he thinks to himself. _This is home._

Sherlock smooths his hands down John’s arms, his fingers finally tangling with John’s and squeezing gently, reassuringly. “I believe I was promised tea,” he reminds him, and while it is meant to pass as a joke, John knows him well enough to know that it was also a rather sincere request.

He grins against Sherlock’s lips, quirking one eyebrow up playfully. “But it’s four o’clock in the morning,” he teases, throwing Sherlock’s earlier words back at him. 

Sherlock kisses him once before pulling away and drawing his long body underneath the covers of their bed once more, tucking himself in right up to the chin. He wiggles dramatically to show that he has full intentions of making himself quite comfortable. 

“Well you’re the one who has gone and woken me up,” he reprimands, yawning theatrically. “Honestly, John. If you’re going to get me up at all hours of the night, the least you could do is follow through on an offer of tea. We’re English, after all. We’re meant to take tea very seriously.”

Ah, there was the Sherlock Holmes that John knew and loved. And as John rolled his eyes and shuffled his way out towards the kitchen, listening to Sherlock’s soft laughter echo behind him, he rather felt that he wouldn’t trade him for all the world.


End file.
